In the window up above

the palette of the night,

where shadows black and

violet deep impair the gift of sight.

Tremblors flick a wishing glow

cast upon a lonesome light,

dreams and doubts and fears and hopes,

ambition burning bright.

The pen rubs fast and furious

across the paper white,

fingers like synapses trigger

words that fit just right.

Her satin gown of solitude

belies her sense of might,

as letters sweet like kisses fall,

her soulful song takes flight.

The magic of the mourning

whispers from the afterlife.